


The Girl From Yesterday

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>How is it that you always slip between my hands?</i> Written April 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl From Yesterday

Body remembers, skin does, too.

Sometimes she gets the strangest feeling that her knees are still scrapped, but they have already healed, not even scars remain. But yet she rubs them absently, as they still hurted from the time Gin made her kneel in empty bathrooms (the tiles hard and cold under her legs) or deserted backyards (the ground rough under her) or at the edge of the forest (the leaves wet and crushed under), when he would grab her by the elbow and drag her to him, and made her suck him.

Even if Matsumoto refused to remember her flesh still does, and it´s more permanent than scars.

But Hitsugaya lets her sleep quietly in the couch and even if her body doesn´t want to aknowledge it she knows Gin is a threat.  
  
*  
  
How is it that you always slip between my hands?

The sword hangs, sharp and pitiless barrier between them; Matsumoto presses it against his waist, her eyes reflecting the cold emptiness of the steel, threatening and vibrant, and like her alive but deathly.

Gin just smiles.

It seems like there is no room for anything else. The world has a jazz piece afterglow, like everything is inexorable, and sad like rain, and lingering.

No matter how often they see each other Gin is always different than the one in her head; Matsumoto doesn´t know where her Gin comes from, or how she came to draw him as she does but she knows Gin (the real one, the one that finds her amusing and a bother, the one whose voice is like sandpaper against your softest skin) would find it ironic to know that he was a made up character, that she invented him.

This new Gin has cruelty written at the sharp end of what he says; she has no illusion about it.

The problem is what she remembers of him.

Because she remembers.

She remembers...

(there was a blurred, unfathomable whole in the middle of her life, with the shape of Gin, a space in which she breathed only for him, she lived only for the hope of his hands on her shoulders, his kisses along her jaw, a space in which the days were measured by the words they exchanged, the glances passed between them)

His thin wrists, finely carved like a woman´s, twisting, his fingers against her arm, brusing the skin under her shirt´s sleeve.

"You really think you can resist this?"

A little laugh escapes him: childish but hollow. His right hand tugs at the fabric of her dress, pressing his fingertips against her thigh, burning like there wasn´t cloth between. When he turns around his breath is on her neck, hot, heavy, charged.

Matsumoto is reminded of the smell of gasoline, of things exploding.

(she is reminded of when he used to smell like sea salt, gorgeous endless summers and hands that cover your eyes, guiding you to the shore)

Once upon a time she used to watch him sleep, wishing he was dreaming about her.

Now she just wishes she could stop dreaming about him; his heartbeat (the sound, the rhythm, the million of tiny vibrations) remains fixed in her memories.

Gin tilts his head, so that his nose rests against Matsumoto´s cheek, his lips brushing her jaw. A blue strike of electricty runs through their bodies, as Gin takes one step closer, hand open-palmed steadying her hips, the other hand upon her collabone, tapping on her skin. He is finger-stained from dust and books and lack of sunlight, so much that his touch is like one of a ghost, locked-room air pushing her.

She cannot hear anything except her own heart beating, quickly, loud, desperate.

Matsumoto has her back to the wall and her head doesn´t hand so proud now but she has faith. Her faith is like her sword and both can cut straight and clear into Gin´s flesh, she doesn´t even have to poison the blade with memories.

She remembers bathing in his presence, they were very young. The soap got into the cuts from the recent training and stung. Gin licked it off from her wounds, but then he stuck his tongue into the same wounds, tasting pain and blood. She had wanted to scream then, but was too afraid to do anything that might embarras Gin.

"You are mine, remember it," he had said then, a casual but severe tone of mine.

Matsumo, nodded, she was very young.

The water run over her body, between her breasts, Gin´s mouth covered one of her nipples while thumbing the curve of her hip, underwater.

The reason she remember that day may be the way orange collapsing afternoon light filtered through the windows and into the bathroom. Or maybe because of the way Gin´s fingers are playing carelessly with her hair right now, a souvenir of another kind of relationship they never had.

Gin and Matsumoto are defined by the negative side of words.

But Matsumoto realizes it cannot compare.

She remembers Gin skilled touch, how he was a bit too perfect to really get involved; but she also remembers the softeness around Hitsugaya´s arrogant eyes, she remembers how after a day´s work the office is filled with his scent, his voice, his very energy, and how it clings to her and she cannot shake it off even after she gets home.

Matsumoto she is not strong, but the sharp end of her sword is.

(for a moment there is doubt, and the blade doesn´t go as deep as it should)

The next thing she knows is blood.

His blood.

It takes metallic in her mouth, between the messy kisses, the twisted clothes around hand, rough and demaning skin fixing itself in her memories forever, burned into like the fire into the back her throat, like she swallowed a silver cross.  
  
*  
  
Matsumoto wakes up on an unfamiliar bed.

To the cold sound of Gin´s voice.

"There is no reason for you to stay longer," the tone frozen as the zero winter.

Memories flood back again, but not of the previous hours; they go back, further, scratching her skin into bare flesh is exposed. That day in the bathroom, a time she still believed there could be warmth in Gin´s smile, someday, a time when he repeated You are mine over and over and she nodded, happy to be his. Now she can hardly believe that Matsumoto ever exited, it wasn´t naivety, it was a different life, one in which she held hope that Gin might stay in bed with her, arms around her body.

She shakes her head (the images won´t go but she shakes her head nonetheless, if anything she has always had faith) and gathers her clothes quietly.

The room feels cold and oppressive at the same time; she can´t breath.

Once upon a time they were almost young and Gin still believed she could save him from the monster he was becoming.

But one day he realized the monster had always been him, and there could be no salvation in her love.

(he is afraid of her faith; afraid of her shape on his bed)

A moment before she crosses the threshold, a moment before she closes that door, with Gin still looking anywhere but at her, erasing her whole existence with his indifference, Matsumoto remember what´s important.

The blade against Gin´s skin.

She remembers the reason for it.

"You were my world," she says very calmy. "But if you try to mess with my captain...I´ll kill you."

Gin was her world, sometimes he still is, sometimes he just sways into her view and the years in between dissapear like sucked in a big black hole. Gin was the end of all things.

(you are mine, he said, and she nodded, silently agreeing, silently telling him so take me, break me, say a word and watch me break)

He is her world; but Hitsugaya is life.

Next time she won´t hesitate.


End file.
